what you are doing here at such an hour, alone, with the property of the Citadel in your arms?” the master groomsman demanded.
“What? It’s me, sir … Cal. I’m just getting a jump on the day’s work. I … I wanted to make up for yesterday’s tardiness.”
The master groomsman walked to the stack of talking saddles and plucked the top one off the pile, revealing the pale, sweaty face of his young, yellow-haired apprentice.
“So it seems you are.”
“I didn’t mean to upset you, sir, I really and truly was just trying to get these horses ready, and keep my mind occupied,” Cal told him rather sheepishly.
“Your mind, son?” the master groomsman looked at Cal suspiciously.
Cal knew the moment the words had escaped from his lips that his transparency was wasted on a man such as this, for most of the soldiers he knew didn’t have the time or the capacity for things like empathy or encouragement. He wished with all his might that he could have just shut his mouth and let the master groomsman believe his motivations were simply to work hard and get a head start on his duties.
“What has your mind so …” he paused to find the right word, “preoccupied?”
“Dreams,” Cal answered shortly this time. “I have had some very unnerving dreams, and I thought some early work would help me to clear my thoughts.”
“I see.” The master groomsman spoke calculatingly, a tone of annoyance in his voice. “Mind that next time you find yourself ‘unnerved’ and in need of some early morning occupations, you inform me first. It was lucky you didn’t find yourself occupied with the point of my blade!”
“Yes sir, sorry sir,” Cal apologized and walked past his superior to finish readying the horses.
As the master groomsman studied the young man going about his assignment, he began to feel unnerved himself. He wasn’t sure if it was just Cal that gave him the feeling, or if it was the talk about dreams. For what does one have to dream of when the only hope in his heart is held in the feeble grip of a dying strength? It had been many branches since the subject of dreams had entered the conversations of these greying people, and the groomsman would much prefer that it stay that way.
Chapter Six
T he day had come and gone like most days in Haven. The woodcutters ravaged the dwindling forests to the north, the scouting party rode to the Herald Tower on the western shore, the city guards put down the insurgence of the outliers, and all while the rest of the citizens went about their mundane tasks of survival.
Cal made his way to the square in the center of the borough to meet the returning cavalry and lead their horses back to the stable yard to water and groom them after the long day’s ride. This particular silvered evening, the streets of Westriver were alive and bustling with the anxious sounds of those still eagerly awaiting the arrival of the woodcutters’ carts to bring them their rations of timber.
Cal, Michael and the handful of other apprentices had a wager going like they did most timber nights, each betting on who would arrive first, the oxen or the horses. The winners would watch the losers muck the others’ stables on the next day, walking around with an air of superiority as they lorded their victory over their fellow mates.
Michael had bet oxen to Cal’s horses this particular evening. If one were to ask the gathering crowd of citizens who it was they really were hoping for, the answer would most certainly be the same—oxen. With the arrival of the woodcutters’ ox-drawn carts came timber enough to quell fear and ease unrest for another few days. There was little love left in this once shining city, and their concern was not for the return of their long-lost King. Rather, what moved the hearts of these greying citizens was their self-made light, which only seemed to satisfy briefly and assuage their fear with momentary illumination.
Very few still held on to any hope that the
“What? It’s me, sir … Cal. I’m just getting a jump on the day’s work. I … I wanted to make up for yesterday’s tardiness.”
The master groomsman walked to the stack of talking saddles and plucked the top one off the pile, revealing the pale, sweaty face of his young, yellow-haired apprentice.
“So it seems you are.”
“I didn’t mean to upset you, sir, I really and truly was just trying to get these horses ready, and keep my mind occupied,” Cal told him rather sheepishly.
“Your mind, son?” the master groomsman looked at Cal suspiciously.
Cal knew the moment the words had escaped from his lips that his transparency was wasted on a man such as this, for most of the soldiers he knew didn’t have the time or the capacity for things like empathy or encouragement. He wished with all his might that he could have just shut his mouth and let the master groomsman believe his motivations were simply to work hard and get a head start on his duties.
“What has your mind so …” he paused to find the right word, “preoccupied?”
“Dreams,” Cal answered shortly this time. “I have had some very unnerving dreams, and I thought some early work would help me to clear my thoughts.”
“I see.” The master groomsman spoke calculatingly, a tone of annoyance in his voice. “Mind that next time you find yourself ‘unnerved’ and in need of some early morning occupations, you inform me first. It was lucky you didn’t find yourself occupied with the point of my blade!”
“Yes sir, sorry sir,” Cal apologized and walked past his superior to finish readying the horses.
As the master groomsman studied the young man going about his assignment, he began to feel unnerved himself. He wasn’t sure if it was just Cal that gave him the feeling, or if it was the talk about dreams. For what does one have to dream of when the only hope in his heart is held in the feeble grip of a dying strength? It had been many branches since the subject of dreams had entered the conversations of these greying people, and the groomsman would much prefer that it stay that way.
Chapter Six
T he day had come and gone like most days in Haven. The woodcutters ravaged the dwindling forests to the north, the scouting party rode to the Herald Tower on the western shore, the city guards put down the insurgence of the outliers, and all while the rest of the citizens went about their mundane tasks of survival.
Cal made his way to the square in the center of the borough to meet the returning cavalry and lead their horses back to the stable yard to water and groom them after the long day’s ride. This particular silvered evening, the streets of Westriver were alive and bustling with the anxious sounds of those still eagerly awaiting the arrival of the woodcutters’ carts to bring them their rations of timber.
Cal, Michael and the handful of other apprentices had a wager going like they did most timber nights, each betting on who would arrive first, the oxen or the horses. The winners would watch the losers muck the others’ stables on the next day, walking around with an air of superiority as they lorded their victory over their fellow mates.
Michael had bet oxen to Cal’s horses this particular evening. If one were to ask the gathering crowd of citizens who it was they really were hoping for, the answer would most certainly be the same—oxen. With the arrival of the woodcutters’ ox-drawn carts came timber enough to quell fear and ease unrest for another few days. There was little love left in this once shining city, and their concern was not for the return of their long-lost King. Rather, what moved the hearts of these greying citizens was their self-made light, which only seemed to satisfy briefly and assuage their fear with momentary illumination.
Very few still held on to any hope that the
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